Prologue

2042:

Dr. Jiang had been lecturing animatedly to his students on the profound importance of the artifact currently rotating on the screen at the front of the room, when his hands suddenly gripped his head and he collapsed to the floor beside his lectern, his body seizing. His heart had been stopped and his brain deprived of precious oxygen for several minutes by the time paramedics were able to navigate the intricate maze of hallways that were infamous in the campus building that bore his name. He had fought long and hard to keep the building in its original architectural state, to avoid the massive modernization the remainder of the university had undergone a decade or so ago. It seemed fitting, then, that the building witness the final protests of his fierce heart, that its walls would echo with the fading sound of his final breaths.

At 3:42 on a warm, cloudless Tuesday afternoon in May, Dr. Jiang was pronounced dead. He was sixty-two years old and tomorrow he would have celebrated his thirty-third anniversary. His husband grieved, his heart wrenching at the incomprehensible loss of Tommy Jiang's touch, of his soft voice and soulful eyes, of his quiet spirit. He endured it all with a pretense of stoicism. He would never again be in the presence of Tommy's boundless energy nor the recipient of his immense wisdom. He would break down later, he knew. But not now. Not now. Now he would call up every vestige of decorum he possessed to honor and respect the man who had taught him so much about love and loyalty and acceptance.

Two taller, older figures flanked his every movement for three days. Their dark hair shot through with streaks of gray and their bodies slightly less imposing than they'd been in their youth, they put aside their own grief and willed their own strength into the smaller man they supported. On the fourth day the three men stood, arms holding each other up, as Zongxiàn 'Tommy' Jiang was buried, his head pointing toward China, one final show of respect to his ancestors.

Justin would later have inscribed on his beloved husband's monument:

                        Yī yè zhī qiū - The falling of the first leaf heralds the Autumn.

Introductions

2012:

"Where the hell's my other shoe?" Justin was rushing, yet again, to make an early morning appointment with a client. He'd worked late into the night desperately trying to finish up a curriculum for the new children's interactive art program at Montoya Synergetic. With the lack of sleep, this morning was looking bleak as far as his already tight schedule was concerned. And now, with the great shoe hunt redux, his time was seriously bordering on a stranglehold.

"This what you're looking for, bǎo bèi?" Justin turned and saw a smirking Tommy swinging the delinquent runner by its still tied laces. "You know, if you'd simply put them in the closet when you get home instead of leaving them where you kick 'em off, this problem would be so easily solved."

Justin retrieved the shoe and kissed the smirking man passionately. "Kiss my ass, pìyǎnr ."

"Oooo...If that's an invitation," Tommy laughed, "you'll definitely miss your appointment this morning. Just think about the children, bǎo bèi."

"Thinking about the children is exactly why I'm running so fucking late this morning," Justin huffed. "Finessing the curriculum took a lot longer than I anticipated."

"But it will be wonderfully fun and comprehensive, as always, Jus." Tommy handed Justin a travel mug of coffee and pushed him toward the door. "Now, go. Be brilliant. Bring artistic enlightenment to the huddled masses and I'll see you tonight," he said with a light kiss on Justin's forehead. "Chinese okay for dinner?"

"Always the comedian, Dr. Jiang," Justin shrugged his satchel onto his shoulder and with a smile he added, "Love you, Professor. Knock 'em dead from the lectern."

Tommy winked. "Love you, too, Jus."

Ten minutes later Justin held precariously to the overhead strap on the subway car. No matter how many times he'd taken this trip over the last seven years, he'd never completely gotten used to the velocity, the propulsion of subway transit. It always made him slightly nauseous and the crush of riders with their potpourri of smells didn't help the situation much. The unwashed bodies, the overly sweaty ones, the cheap colognes and rich perfumes... it all mixed into a sometimes overwhelmingly heady experience of this city.

Nothing in Pittsburgh had prepared him for the pure culture shock - just pure shock itself - that met him when his feet had first hit the ground at Laguardia. He'd been to New York before, of course. But now, he was going to live here. He'd been at once terrified and exhilarated, a little bit melancholy and a little bit angry. Why the hell he hadn't taken more time to better plan this 'great artistic adventure' he didn't know. Living on a frayed shoestring while bunking on a broken-down sofa in a fifth floor walk-up shared with three other desperate souls wasn't exactly what he'd planned, but it was what he had. As well as flashbacks to sharing a decrepit apartment in the Pitts, complete with sound effects, compliments of one fucking cello-playing roommate named Jorge.

Once the initial adrenaline slowed, it didn't take long for the depression to set it. Justin had been just a hair's breath away from full blown depressive since the bashing as it was. Now, in the wake of bombs, with poverty burning a cold hole in his pocket, and without the consistent support network he'd so cavalierly left behind him, his emotional state tanked.  It fully hit when it became obvious that he and Brian were really over, that there were just too many issues between them to navigate, that they weren't even going to seriously try to make it work. His art suffered and he further distanced himself from Pittsburgh and the family for a long while. He fleetingly dabbled in Brian's methods of managing his pain until he woke up in yet another hospital room, swollen and struggling to breathe from a reaction to who knows what random drug he'd ingested. He was alone, scared out of his mind at what he might have done, and with another hole in his memory.

But, as tends to happen, time passed and he came to terms with his life and he started to grow up. Slowly and painfully, he learned who he was as a man, living on his own terms. What he was capable of without the stigma of being 'the stalker' or 'Brian's Kinney's twink' or 'the Boy Wonder'. He found out things about himself that he'd likely never have discovered under Brian's wing: a love of opera and Gregorian music, a decided aversion to Thai take-out, that not shaving every day made him appear older, that he didn't need 'friends' who expected carte blanche access to his home and the details of his personal life.

Most importantly he realized that the sun rose and the sun set with or without Brian Kinney around. That had been a hard fact to accept at first. But it had been a necessary one. And the acceptance had let him live 'just another day'.  'Just another month'. 'Just another year'. Finally, he learned how to live without the scare quotes and time framing. 

At last Justin felt the train slow at his stop, heard the mechanical hiss of the doors sliding open with the accompanying rush of bodies against his own. His stomach calmed as his feet again made contact with the stained concrete of the landing, as one foot brushed aside the discarded remains of someone's hastily eaten breakfast, as the deafening cacophony that was The City once again thrummed against his eardrums. The never-ending beat pulsed through him like a Saturday night at Babylon, and he smiled widely.

He fucking loved New York.

:::

Brian closed his laptop and laid his glasses on the cover. He'd been working on this account for a few too many hours and now, even with the readers, the words were starting to run together. He yawned and stretched and, looking at the small digital clock on his desk, realized it was already 12:45. He should have been in bed an hour ago. As he stood, he felt that small twinge in his right knee again. A memento of his chaotic childhood that bothered him more and more as the years passed. Christ, he thought, when did I get so old? After another, longer stretch he quietly turned off the lights and made his way to bed.

"Mmphfh." Brian smiled at the unintelligible acknowledgment from the body snuggled down into the dark blue duvet. He rolled over and, pushing a lock of shaggy hair aside, let his lips drift across the soft skin just behind his partner's ear.

"Go back to sleep," he said softly.

"Mmm... Love you, Brian. 'Night," came the sleepy reply.

Brian chuckled lightly at the sleepy lump beneath the covers and once again marveled at the way his life had played out. A little over seven years ago he'd been convinced his life was over. A few weeks after Justin left, right on the heels of losing Gus to the Great White North, Brian's life spiraled.  He'd thrown himself headfirst and blind into the bottle, the drugs and as many tricks as he could possibly find. But every drink, every snort, every anonymous body just left him feeling a bit more empty.

The final blow had been one fucked-up party and a drug bust, with a plea bargain six months later. Thank god he'd had Cynthia and Ted, and a host of others, to pick up the reins of Kinnetik or he would have ended up penniless. While he detoxed and spent his time in court mandated rehab, they carried the company. Hell, they made it thrive. He would never be able to thank them enough for that, a fact they never missed an opportunity to remind him of. His professional reputation had taken a serious hit and Brian knew it. He also knew he'd been lucky to have dodged this particular bullet for so many years, a circumstance which had fed both his dependencies and his now tarnished Teflon image. But after everything he'd gone through to build his company, he'd be damned if he'd lose the last thing he had of any worth in his life.

It was the wakeup call he needed to start getting his shit together. And now, at the age of 42, after years of the therapy he'd always sworn he'd never submit to and facing down demons he'd managed to avoid for the better part of thirty-five years, his life was... good. He'd left the Pitts and resettled Kinnetik in New York, carving out a niche for himself in the bustle of Manhattan's streets. He had a comfortable home, a best friend who knew him better than any friend should probably ever know another - and he had this crazy lump in bed beside him. As his partner.

Peter Pan had finally given in and grown up. 

As he crawled into the warmth of the sheets and curled himself up to the lean muscled back, he let out a contented sigh against tousled, dark hair.

"Night, Kels. I love you, too." The words came easily. Honestly. And he'd always be just a little amazed at that.

Chapter 1

2012

It was already seven when Brian walked out of his office and hailed a taxi. He knew everyone had been waiting for him for over an hour now, and Kelsey was probably pissed as hell that he hadn't let him know the meeting was running late. He shook his head and grinned at the thought of having his own brooding Irishman. He laughed to himself, remembering the number of times over the years he'd looked in the mirror and snarkily remarked that he'd fuck himself, never really thinking that one day that would be almost a reality.

Kelsey Moran was the consummate dark Irishman. Quick to anger, quick to brood and passionate as fucking hell. Unfortunately, like Brian, he was also quick to drink, which is how they'd come to meet. Theodore still hadn't let Brian live down the fact that he'd met Kelsey at a support group meeting, of all damned places.

Brian settled into the taxi seat and pulled out his phone.

--Hey, Kels. Meeting ran over. Any food left?

--Hell, no, ya dick. Mom tossed it when ya didn't show.

--I'm wounded. See you in twenty.

Brian closed the text message and pocketed his phone, smirking at Kels' usual shit. Who would have ever thought Brian Kinney would be looking forward to dinner with 'the fam' with nary a Novotny in sight? When he thought about it, however, he knew the absence of Novotnys was one of the main reasons he looked forward to these dinners. And one of the reasons Kelsey was so much a part of his world. His life.

:::

Mary Moran turned down the flame under the potatoes and laid the spoon on the crooked orange and green holder. It was originally, she was sure, supposed to be an ashtray for Sean when Kelsey made it in school so many years ago, but... well, it had found its ultimate destiny as a spoon rest. She'd never been able to discard it, even after more than thirty years of use. When she looked around her house, she could see crafty evidence of every stage of her child's life. Pictures hanging in frames made from popscicle sticks. Woven potholders that had never held pots safely. A dozen or more clay animals, the species of which were questionable. Each and every one in a place of honor in the small, frame home she'd lived in for nearly forty years. And on the corner of the credenza behind the sofa was a lucite box holding a tiny trilobite fossil from Ontario, next to a picture of the smiling young man who found it for her last spring. Gus.

At sixty-three, Mary was still a beautiful woman. Her figure was a bit fuller and much of the deep red of her hair had begun to fade, but her eyes were still the charming green they'd been when she was twenty-three and her laughter was still quick and easy. She loved her Sean to distraction, adored her only child, and was the undisputed heartbeat of the Moran family. When Kelsey had shared with her ten years ago that he was gay, she prayed. Not that he would be changed, but that he would be protected. That her son would find someone who could handle his sometimes-sorry ass. Now, a decade later, they were all waiting dinner on the answer to that very prayer.

"He's on his way, mom." Kelsey Moran picked at the roast his mother had just taken out of the oven, then dodged the snap of the dish towel she aimed at him. "He's gonna pretend that nothing's wrong, but this is a bad day for him." Mary nodded her head and sighed. She remembered last year. And the year before. At first, she'd thought that Brian's sadness was a reaction to his birthday, to getting older. It hadn't taken long after meeting him to uncover his vanity. But she'd since learned that it was something much, much more that haunted this particular day.

Kelsey kissed his mother's cheek and changed the subject. "Now, time to hide the soda bread."

Mary huffed indignantly. "Like hiding it will do a whit of good. The boy's got a nose like a bloodhound when it comes to my bread." But her eyes twinkled as she handed the towel-wrapped plate to her son. "The cupboard over the fridge. Haven't hid it there in a while," she said. "Now, go on you, get your dad."

A few minutes later the Morans all sat waiting around the table as Brian surveyed the room, his head tilted and one brow cocked. Mary's laugh trilled through the warm space as Brian ended the game and easily retrieved the bread from the high cupboard, placing it in the middle of the table.

"Dinner smells great as always, Mary" he said as he took his seat. There might have been just a little less despair in his eyes this year.

:::

Justin bolted up in bed, the sheet falling from his chest, now balled up in his fists. He paced his breaths in an attempt to do the same with his heartbeat. He didn't remember much about the dreams anymore. The graphic visuals had dimmed over time, but his body's response to them hadn't followed suit. At least they only came once or twice a year now, and at least tonight they'd expected this.

Tommy quickly moved behind Justin and wrapped his arms around the slightly heaving chest. "You're okay, bǎo bèi," he whispered. "You're okay."

Justin leaned his head back against Tommy and let himself be calmed by the minty aroma that always surrounded the man, soothed by the familiar feel of his skin and the lyrical cadence of his voice. His pulse slowed and he chuckled a little when he realized that Tommy was singing. And what he was singing.

So we sailed up to the sun, til we found the sea of green...   

"You're a freak, Tommy."

And we lived beneath the waves, in our yellow submarine...*

"My own freak," he said as he tightened Tommy's arms around him.

"You should call him."

"No way I'm calling him at..." Justin twisted to glance at the clock beside their bed. "...at almost 3:30 in the morning. Christ, Kelsey would have a shit fit, my need for Hobbsian dream solace aside."

"Nah, they'd both understand and you know it." He rested his cheek against Justin's hair. "You and Brian shared some serious shit, bǎo bèi... and dysfunctional and codependent as your connection may have been, you can't just ignore all that. Besides," Tommy whispered into his partner's ear, "he's our friend and he may just need you tonight, too."

"As much as I love you for being understanding, Tommy, there's really no need to overdo it. I don't need Brian tonight. I have you and he has Kels.  And, yeah, he's our friend and we shared some things I really wish we hadn't had to share..."

"But you don't want to become a Mikey?"

Justin snickered. Tommy had heard all about the Brian and Mikey show.

"Yeah, partly. But I've also gotten past the need for a nightmare mediator. I know what's happening and why, and, though you may not believe it, Professor, I'm a really big boy now." 

Tommy flipped Justin over on top of him and wrapped his legs tightly around Justin's waist. "Oh, believe me, I know just what a big boy you are." He threaded one hand through Justin's hair and pulled the younger man's head back sharply. "But, why don't you remind me again?"

Justin happily obliged.

Chapter 2

2007

Brian felt a bit of trepidation as he unpacked yet another box in the new headquarters of Kinnetik. He'd thought twice - hell, he'd thought a thousand times - about his chances of making it in the Big Apple. About competing with the big dogs in the big kennel. About leaving everything he'd ever known behind in Pittsburgh. About relocating to the city where Justin lived. And really, wasn't that last concern the one that troubled him most? But what were the chances of just running into each other in a city of over eight million? Especially now that Brian wasn't doing the club scene anymore. And honestly, Manhattan wasn't exactly known for its bustling artist communities.

It had been almost two years since they'd last seen each other, last spoken. Right before the cops had raided Cal's little party and Brian's life had been upended. That wasn't the last night he'd gotten fucked up, although it was pretty close to it. But Brian had been clean and sober for well over a year and a half now. For the most part. There were a few tense moments at the beginning of his arrest-inspired legal journey that had sent him running back for chemical relief. And Mikey... shit, Mikey had eagerly been right there pouring consolation into a highball glass for him, rolling it up in a Randy's Wired, and reminding him he was Brian Kinney, for fuck's sake.

That had been the hardest thing to come to terms with. Harder than admitting his dependency on the chemical crutches, harder than figuring out why he was compelled to service his dick at a rate the sex industry could only aspire to, harder even than recalling - and talking about - his totally fucked up childhood. No, it had been coming to terms with his and Michael's twisted friendship, a friendship that enabled both men to avoid every psychological aspect of real individual growth.

Dr. Berm had called it an "unhealthy confidence", a "reciprocal addiction to denial", a "negative codependency founded in mutual lack of self-esteem". Brian had scoffed initially and then grudgingly read the information on toxic friendships the good doctor placed in front of him. He really wasn't surprised at how well it described the fucked-up relationship Mikey and he had developed since high school. He'd already known that bit of high school holdover was fucked up. What was more surprising to Brian was how well parts of the narrative criteria fit his relationships with Lindsay and Debbie, as well. Nearly everyone in his inner circle.

Fuck. Even Justin.

It was weeks after that before Brian actually owned it, however. Weeks in forced rehab therapy sessions, talking - Jesus! - about feelings and abuse and codependency and denial and fucking self-esteem issues - before Brian was able to process the destructive correlation between his own behavior and Michael's. But when it hit, when it actually sank in, he'd made the excruciating decision to end his longest friendship. 

When Brian walked out of rehab, face-to-face with the realities that had essentially landed him there in the first place, he ended up on Theodore and Blake's sofa for a week. He wasn't sure he could live in the loft again and stay sober. It wasn't just his home - it was an iconic representation of his myth. It was crammed full, wall to wall with old patterns and the ghosts of old behaviors. He could re-key it, redecorate it, renovate it... but it would still be haunted in every corner with tricks and booze and drug binges and Justin. He also knew he wouldn't make it, wouldn't succeed at any level of sobriety, if he didn't significantly address - in fact as well as theory - the impact 'the family' had on his life. And he was surprised at how fucking much he actually wanted to succeed.

Thus began the plans to relocate Kinnetik. It would essentially put Brian in a new location without an existing support system, but he had no healthy support system in place in Pittsburgh, either. Just the opposite, in fact. No, he wouldn't succeed in Pittsburgh. He had to distance himself from his triggers.

So now, here he was. Unloading boxes and unpacking suitcases in New York. Theodore and Cynthia firmly behind him, the number of Dr. Berm's colleague programmed into his phone and an appointment already on the books. And his fucking fingers crossed that this limb he was walking on would bear his weight. At least, perhaps, there was no one behind him with a damn chain saw.

:::

A hazy glimmer blinked back at Justin as he let his eyes sweep the City panorama. Bertie's rooftop provided the perfect vantage point and he could almost make out the lighted silhouettes of a half-dozen landmark buildings.

Funny. He'd been in New York for over two years now and hadn't made it to a single one. His mom just said that made him more a resident than a visitor, that he belonged here, but Justin wasn't quite as prone to self-delusion as he had been not so long ago. In reality, the last two years blinked back at him with just as much hazy glimmer as the city spread out below him, and none of it contained anything like the feeling of belonging he'd left behind in Pittsburgh.

"Inspiring, isn't it?"

Justin turned his head briefly toward the soft voice at his right. Tommy - at least he thought that was the man's name. They'd been introduced briefly when Justin arrived earlier, but hadn't spoken at the time. "It's a deception," Justin answered with a lackluster smile. "Illusory. All glitz and glamor from up here, but all grit and sweat and bone-breaking weight when you get a closer look."

"Ah, but isn't that true of life itself? Reality is merely some sensory illusion we live?"

Justin turned again to the man at his side, raising the Sam Adams he held in salute. "To the Wachowski siblings."

Tommy laughed. "Damn. And here I was hoping you'd find me all philosophical and mysterious. I need to brush up on my material."

"If nothing else, it's unique. First time I recall anyone using the Matrix as a conversation starter." Justin held out his hand. "Justin Taylor."

"Tommy Jiang, but you can call me Neo."

Justin chuckled and rolled his eyes. "Oh, you're right. You do need some work on your material."

The next hour passed in conversation about reality, illusion, and a mutual crush on a young Keanu Reeves. Justin discovered that this soft-spoken man with the honey-butter skin and the twinkling almond eyes taught art history at a local university; that he was the first of his family born on American soil; that he was intelligent and witty and beautiful. And Justin discovered that for that hour, he felt just a little less out of place in this illusory world of bright lights and graffiti scrawled concrete.

He'd almost passed on the invitation to the midnight barbeque on the roof of Bertie and Billie's apartment. He and Billie had only worked together for a few weeks, but had bonded on at least a surface level as he cataloged ownership documents and bills of lading for the Montoya Gallery and she worked the floor in sales. But she and Bertie had cajoled and pleaded and flirted him into coming, in much the way that Daphne had always done. So here he was, debating the finer points of perception and reality with an intriguing man and feeling a little more than set up by two persistent lesbians. And for a little while, he forgot to miss Pittsburgh.

Two weeks later, Justin lay in bed in that few moments just before sleep took him, smiling at the memory of his day. He'd spent the early evening sitting on a bleacher court side, eating one of the worst hot-dogs he'd ever had, tears streaming down his face from laughter as he watched the elegant, graceful Tommy Jiang throw up his hands petulantly when he missed basket after basket in a faculty/charity basketball game. The man obviously knew nothing about the game, but he knew when not to take himself too seriously - and he looked great in the shorts. As sleep finally claimed him, for the first time the eyes meeting Justin's in dreams were deep brown instead of hazel, the skin butter-honey instead of soft olive.

:::

The office of Dr. Leon Basquait was, oddly enough, in the building across the street from the one that housed the new offices of Kinnetik NY. Brian hadn't really planned it that way, but he wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth, as his grandfather used to say. At least this way, he wouldn't have to take a whole day away from starting up the new office when he had an appointment. And leaving therapy at this juncture just wasn't an option. His probation was in effect for another year and continued therapy was one of the requirements. If Brian was honest with himself - a self-honesty he was still struggling to embrace - he would admit that he now valued the long-vilified psychoanalysis, even if he didn't like it much. He knew he'd made a mess of his life, letting his childhood demons control him, all the while loudly proclaiming how little that childhood had affected him. Coming to grips with the fact that he was a product of even those early experiences was still a daunting thought.

"Brian, welcome. Please, have a seat."

Leon Basquait had been a bit of a surprise to Brian. Small in stature and slightly built, he also had an authoritarian presence about him. Brian could tell he'd been blonde at some earlier point in his life, but his hair was now the faded creamy gray that came with age to so many fair-haired men. Brian thought it some kind of karmic joke that the man reminded him a bit of Justin.

"Dr. Basquait," Brian greeted as he shook the man's hand. "Good to see you again."

"But you'd rather be having a root canal?" Dr. Basquait chuckled and settled back into his chair, folding his hands on his desk.

Brian Kinney had made his feelings about counseling and therapy quite clear during their first session. In the beginning, the doctor thought this was going to be yet one more instance of a non-compliant patient and prepared himself to coerce every single word from the man's mouth. He was pleasantly surprised when Brian had followed up his declaration that "psychotherapy is bullshit" with a quiet "but apparently, I'm told, I need more bullshit in my life." 

He'd read Brian's file, forwarded to him by Dr. Berm, and had gained a beginning understanding of the issues that haunted the man's life. Again, before he'd met Brian Kinney, Dr. Basquait had prepared himself for a totally different kind of patient. With a recounting of childhood abuse, drugs, alcohol and prolific sexual acting out, the basics could have been ripped from the pages of a psychological journal profiling any number of men from various jail cells or homeless shelters. Failure to thrive within society's sometimes unyielding constraints wouldn't have been the least bit surprising given those stumbling blocks in one's life. When he met, instead, a successful and charismatic businessman two weeks ago, he'd been alternately pleased and pained for the man. Pleased to see that Brian Kinney had ostensibly navigated the harsh terrain of life's rules and regulations to arrive at a successful adulthood somewhat intact, and pained to think of the inner turmoil the man had obviously endured by hiding his own pain from that world. Until, that is, Brian's arrest last year made hiding the chemical addictions, at least, an impossibility.

"So, tell me how you've been since we met last week."

Brian ran a hand through his hair and huffed out a small laugh. "You boys really need to get some new intro dialogue."

This was the part he hated, this extemporaneous offering up of his feelings. Give me a 'yes/no' question, give me a damned fill in the blank, he thought. Instead, he searched for a way to begin the resurrection of Brian Kinney's angst. "It's been... tough. Trying to settle into the apartment and the office... Hell, into a whole fucking new life, without..." He let the sentence dangle. They both knew the list of things he was leaving out.

"Reconditioning your psyche to handle stress without the usual crutches... Of course it's going to be tough. Your whole life was crafted around those crutches, Brian. And remember, it's really only been a matter of months."

"I fucking hate this feeling... this lack of control. It's... not Brian Kinney."

Dr. Basquait smiled to himself. "Brian, you realize you've never really been in control. Control implies actually dealing with your issues. What you call control was a form of sublimation. The drugs, alcohol, sexual acting out, codependent relationships... They were all mechanisms used so you didn't actually have to deal."

Brian closed his eyes and laid his head back on the chair. He knew all this, had been through it time and again in rehab and in counseling with Dr. Berm. He knew it. Didn't make it any easier to handle when the stress crept up, however. He was continually surprised that the one thing that threatened him most wasn't the loss of constant indiscriminate sex. That had been, after all, the crux of The Legend, the hallmark of The Myth. He missed it, yeah, but he was able to cope for the most part through the talents of his own hand and the occasional hook-up. No, the most dangerously attractive of his poisons was the booze. Everything else seemed to hover around that.

"Have you attended any support meetings? Here, in the City?"

"Not yet," Brian replied quietly and waited for the responding sigh from the doctor. Truth of the matter was he hadn't even looked for a group. He had a visceral aversion to AA. The religious aspect of that particular group was detestable to him - he imagined his mother, Bible and bottle in hand, clutching her faux-pearls, weeping and 'sharing'. No, that was not a group he particularly relished joining.

"Brian," - and there was the sigh - "setting aside the fact that I'm legally required to report to your probation officer if you don't find a group and attend regularly, you're also setting yourself up for relapse." Dr. Basquait leaned back in his oversized chair and ran a hand across his chin. "It's highly unlikely that you can control this alone... not even with our bi-monthly chats."

With a wan little smile, Brian acknowledged the warning. Both warnings. "I won't do the God crap, Dr. Basquait. The 'higher power' mantra, the indoctrinating bullshit..." He snorted. "The cult life of bowing to the ineffable isn't my thing, not even for sobriety's sake." 

"Ahh...Well, luckily for you there are dozens of secular groups available - some step based, others not. In this city, you could find one on every other corner. But you need to find something and commit to it, Brian."

Another wan smile flickered across Brian's face as he thought about the irony of the doctor's phrasing.  "Yeah, well, commitment hasn't historically been my strong suit."

The doctor shook his head at the negativity coming from his patient. Perhaps his initial assessment of Brian Kinney wasn't so far off the mark after all. He suspected that the negativity, as real as it effectively was, however, was merely another crutch. Beneath the man's self-aware facade resided a very insecure and damaged young boy who had no idea how strong he really was. Months from now - months filled with anger and pain, both physical and emotional, months steeped in wrenching despair and solemn acceptance - both men would look back indulgently on young Brian's Herculean strength and thank him for the survival.